


you're gonna hear electric music

by cherryroad (summerstorm)



Category: High School Musical RPF
Genre: F/M, Superpowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-20
Updated: 2009-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 13:59:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/cherryroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ways in which knowing Zac is a superhero affects Vanessa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're gonna hear electric music

Vanessa sort of assumed, at first, that knowing Zac was out there saving the world would make her feel proud and relaxed, like she actually _knew_ where her boyfriend was and, whenever someone talked about Zeffirelli at a party or whatever, she'd get to smile and say, "Oh, I heard about that" like she'd heard about it in the news, but in reality know so much more and feel, like, _awesome_ because that was _her_ boyfriend saving the world on a regular basis and she was _in_ on it and stuff.

The thing is—one of the things is—she's never cared much about real-life superheroes. Or comic book ones, for that matter, except when they get hot actors to play them in movie adaptations, which is shallow, yes, but not shallow enough that she should deal with it like it's a real problem. The point is, she's not like those love interests in comics who are, like, _connected_ to the superhero identity because it's their job to keep people informed. Vanessa's job is acting and singing and looking pretty and restraining from using the taser in her purse on the paparazzi. That's her job.

So she hadn't realized before how perverted people can be.

Because, sure, Zac Efron. Vanessa is dating _Zac Efron_. (Well, technically she's dating Zac, but, for all intents and purposes and to the world at large, her Zac is _Zac Efron_.) She's vaguely aware that her boyfriend's public persona features in the wet dreams of many girls across the globe. It's, like, she's dating a teen heartthrob. She's lucky she got to play the Gabriella to his Troy, because at least that keeps a fair share of his fans from hating her. She gets it. She's sort of always wanted Leo and Kate to hook up in real life, even though Sam seems like a perfectly okay husband.

But dating Zac Efron means people know better than to talk to you about their inappropriate crushes and impure thoughts—unless people are Ashley, but she's allowed to by, like, context, and Van doesn't mind that at all—, but now she's not just dating Zac Efron. She's dating Zeffirelli.

And people talk.

People talk a lot.

At first it was just, you know, things she caught across booths at diners. Teenagers sighing about how dreamy Zeffirelli is, with that Z like Zorro but with all the Romeo appeal and flying like Superman and carrying barely conscious girls out of buildings on fire. (Vanessa had never noticed how many buildings caught fire on a weekly basis until she started paying attention to Zac's emergency calls.) That was okay. She smiled surreptitiously, because those girls idolized Zac's superhero identity, and Van was the one he sometimes picked up while in costume and some other times tickled with his eyes, literally, like a dozen miniature ice cubes dancing on her back.

It feels good to have something other people want.

But, unfortunately, it doesn't stop there.

There's also the part about how, now that she knows, Zac doesn't bother with excuses. He'll get a call on his cell in the middle of a party and talk his way through it in codes that Vanessa can sort of decipher, and then he'll tell her where he's really going, and he'll change into costume in the restroom and disappear through the window.

And Vanessa's left trying to come up with cover stories herself—and not just cover stories that seem believable, but cover stories that won't make people think they've had a fight and she's told him to leave, or worse, that he's left her dateless and all alone there. She may feel frustrated, and she's a little bit childish, but she's not as immature as to take it out on his image.

So there she is, picking a glass of champagne from the tray the waiter's passing around, and mentally willing her skirt to stop itching, when a couple of women—Vanessa knows one of them is the editor of a semi-important magazine, though which one is a mystery; it's already enough of an accomplishment that she remembers the woman's job—spot her and lock eyes with her for long enough that it would be rude to pretend she hasn't seen them.

"Vanessa," one of them exclaims, holding out her arm for Van to half-hug her and blow-kiss her on the cheek. They're old enough to choose whether they'd rather be _friendly_—give real hugs as a greeting, and actually let people feel the warmth of their cheek—and catch some germs, or stay safe and just shake hands, Vanessa thinks. This halfway-there thing is bullshit. Not that Van has anything against blowing kisses. Van can blow kisses like no other. "Vanessa," the woman repeats, like she's Van's aunt or something.

Vanessa smiles, as one does. "Hi," she says sweetly.

"Where's that pretty boyfriend of yours?" the other woman asks. Vanessa restrains the urge to raise an eyebrow.

"He had—" She signals towards her back, and purses her lips. "He, uh. Something came up," she settles. "Long story." She shakes her head to make it known that it's nothing. Really.

The women give her a few seconds to explain herself if need be, and then the editor says, "Well. I hope you're having fun."

So _that_'s the host, Vanessa thinks. Good to know.

The host then leaves Vanessa with the other woman. The other woman must be around fifty, though it's hard to tell her age under all those face-lifts. She's on the thin side and her arms would be scary if she wasn't wearing a fake tan. As it is, they're just kind of funny.

"So," Vanessa says, nodding a little, willing the nonexistent conversation to end.

"So," the other woman starts, suddenly cheerful. She wouldn't be so cheerful if she knew Van calls her 'the other woman' in her head. These people are proud. "Did you hear about Zeffirelli?"

Van blinks. "Huh?"

"A bus collapsed into an office building downtown. He just flew in," she says, and pulls out an—_iPhone_. "I'm following the latest news on this device. My son got it for me for my birthday." Vanessa actually has an iPhone in her purse, but hadn't thought of using it to figure out where Zac is. He usually keeps her informed by means of texts and voicemails—not by the minute, but he's busy. She knows that. He has superpowers, and he's never come back to her with so much as a scratch, so she doesn't have reason to worry. Not really.

The woman shows her a photo over an article—and there he is: Zac standing on top of the bus, looking down—a practiced, comfortable pose of surveillance, and that ridiculous cursive silver Z all over his torso, starting on his right shoulder and going down to the left side of his hip. As far as costumes go, it could be worse. The background red to the Z doesn't hurt the eye, and the bottom part is a really dark shade of grey picking up and fading from the edge of the silver Z.

Plus, for some weird superhero reason, it makes him look more built than he actually is, and the mask is silver and dark grey, stylized and kind of sexy.

Vanessa _likes_ it.

Apparently, so does the woman the iPhone belongs to. "He's sexy, huh?" she says, and Vanessa realizes she was biting her lip.

She snaps out of it. "Um, sure," she says, trying to throw in a lack of conviction. She doesn't want to be a partner in gush to someone perving over her boyfriend.

"He's strong, isn't he?" the woman says, and, unfortunately, a couple of girls Vanessa vaguely recognizes from the KCAs hear her.

"He's incredible," the perky blonde says. "It's like, he _exudes_ manliness."

Vanessa raises her eyebrows, because Zac, when he's around her, costume or no costume, hardly ever does. At best, he just radiates a little guyliness. "Really."

"_Yeah_," the perky blonde replies, and then she's grabbing the iPhone, looking at it and—and _leering_ at it and _ew_, that girl can't be older than fourteen, where are her _parents_?

"Look at those abs," the brunette says, pointing at the picture with a frighteningly black nail. The woman also notices this and sneakily takes the iPhone away from her, and Vanessa should probably feel weird about being in sync with a fifty-year-old lady, but at this point, she's just glad the girls are not ogling.

Except, before putting the iPhone back in her purse, the woman zooms in and her eyes linger for a second, and Vanessa notices how her gaze goes downwards and ew, she's looking at—_ew_, and Vanessa _has_ to grimace.

"What's wrong?" the woman says. "You don't like him?"

Vanessa's face relaxes, or she hopes so, anyway. "I like him just fine, ma'am."

And then, she pretty much runs for her life.

And then, she finds out there's a rumor making the rounds about how she hooked up with Zeffirelli and now you can't talk about him in her presence because she wasn't what he was looking for, and he left her _so_ broken-hearted, and her relationship with Zac is on the edge of falling apart.

Oh, and Zac—no, not Zac, _Zeffirelli_, was seen kissing his sidekick. Who Vanessa hasn't met yet, though Zac's explained to her how said sidekick has something of an addiction to drugs, and the drugs affect his recovery from using a power with a really weird name that she didn't catch, but that basically meant he could become transparent and, like, intoxicate the bad guys with the venom of his invisibility, and Zac occasionally had to kiss him and breathe into his mouth so it wouldn't take his sidekick hours to become solid again.

But then Vanessa sometimes makes out with Ashley in that romantic friendship way of theirs, so she figures they're even.

Still, sometimes she wants to hold onto Zac as he flies over Santa Barbara to rescue some kid from falling off a roof, and stand proud next to him as the press takes pictures, and take off his mask and kiss him so the paps don't think she's two-timing him.

She's not going to, because she _understands_ why he has to keep his secret identity secret, but that doesn't make her want to any less.

Like, sometimes they're somewhere, and Zac's arm is around her back and she's dressed up and looks all pretty, and then there's Miley Cyrus in her line of vision, asking if they heard how Zeffirelli saved a litter of puppies from burning to the death in an industry bread oven, and Zac is obviously uncomfortable and it hits her that that's why she loves him—how, instead of acting like he has a mancrush on himself, he smiles and hides behind his bangs and looks all embarrassed.

But Miley's still there, going, "Don't you just _love it_ when they get good pictures of him? Like," and she pulls out her cellphone, and points at it, "this one," and there's Zac's mouth, clearly, under the mask, and Van's Zac is looking someplace else entirely and Vanessa has to let go of him so he can go get a drink or something.

Miley keeps talking.

"Yeah, sure," Vanessa says, "that's a nice picture."

"Don't you just want to—," Miley starts, and, if Vanessa wasn't so good at denial, she'd admit that Miley just kinda _growled_.

"Yeah, Zac is—" Vanessa says, trying to get out, and doesn't let herself breathe until Miley nods.

"Sure."

People talk way too much. About the most inane things, like, like Zac's _teeth_. Zeffirelli's teeth, technically, but still. And his gloves. And his _calves_. And his thighs. Vanessa's a big fan of Zac's thighs, but all the people _talking_ about them are turning her off them. They're turning her off _Zac's thighs_. It's ridiculous. She worked hard to get them to look like they do now. She has the right to bask in her effort, and they're not _letting_ her.

She finds Zac at the bar, sitting on a stool and holding a Disney-approved margarita. He turns to her and smiles sheepishly.

"Hey," she says.

"I'm sorry about—"

"It's not your fault."

"I know you don't like—"

"It's not your fault," and she smiles to prove her point. He still looks a bit guilty, though, and Vanessa—Vanessa just wants to hug him and be serious for a moment and tell him that she'll be there and she's glad he told her, even if that means she can't stay in her bubble where people only want her boyfriend on a theoretical level and women old enough to be his grandmother don't lust after his superhero costume-enhanced package, and she has to rack her brain for cover stories every time he leaves and they're in a public place, and she's still young but he may or may not be immortal, and she doesn't have the guts to ask him or even address that particular issue.

So she settles in close until his hand falls down to her ass, which is where it belongs, in Vanessa's opinion, and he snuggles his head into her neck. And she says, "Besides, I like the ice-cube thing."

She feels him smirk against her hair.

Sometimes—sometimes she loves him so much she could burst with it.


End file.
